


The Angel, The Demon, and The Hol(l)y Spirit

by lucky_spike



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But like cute demons, Fluff, Humor, Other, Ponies are demons, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: In the South Downs, Crowley and Aziraphale find their quiet little lives gently menaced by a riding school pony. Holly, the pony, knows exactly what she is doing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 159





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to the Ace Omens discord server. Even though this was supposed to be short, and they're all terrible enablers. I still love them. Also, thanks to [Nen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenchen/works) for the very punny title. ;)

**1**

There is a pony in the garden. Aziraphale, standing at the window while mulling over his fresh cup of tea, watches it. There is not supposed to be a pony in the garden. There has never before been a pony in the garden. And yet, there it is, large as life, chestnut and shiny and plump, eating its way through the daisies along the walk and leaving behind natural fertilizer as it goes.

“Hm.” says the angel. Then, more loudly, “Crowley?” He waits a moment, and when no answer is immediately forthcoming, he tries again, a bit more loudly still. “Crowley?”

It’s ten in the morning. Surely Crowley is up by now. But his call garners no additional response, and so the angel sighs, and sets down his mug, and says, in a voice that rings with celestial power and the wonder of Creation, “ **_Crowley, there is a pony in the garden._ ** ”

In the garden, the pony flicks an ear. She heard the angel, certainly: any living thing in a fifty-yard radius would have. But she is a pony, and therefore, she does not care.

Crowley emerges from the bedroom approximately five minutes later. The pony has made quite good progress on the daisies. Aziraphale wonders briefly if he should try to shoo her off, but then he considers that Crowley never really cared for the daisies, and besides, it’s a week until the next book auction and the angel has been feeling just a little bit bored. At the very least, the pony in the garden should make for an entertaining diversion.

“Wha’s happened?” Crowley asks, still in pajamas and barefoot (although it’s a bit hard to tell, if you don’t know him). He leans up against the opening to the kitchen and rubs his eye with the heel of his hand. “Huh?” He yawns. “Thought I heard you say there’s a pony in the garden.”

Aziraphale smiles sunnily at the demon. “There is. A pony in the garden, that is. I believe she is eating your daisies.”

Crowley’s eyes slide open a bit wider, and he blinks the sleep from them, once, twice. “What? Really?” He shuffles forward until, framed by the window, the shining chestnut pony comes into view. Crowley stops. “I …  _ what _ ? What?”

“She’s making quite good progress,” Aziraphale observes. “I wonder how long she’s been there. I’ve been watching her for a steady few minutes, and she’s quite industrious.”

There is indignant spluttering coming from his left, but he doesn’t turn to look. It takes a few false starts for Crowley to find his words, and when he does, they are hissed and bewildered. “ _ A few minutes _ ? Angel, why the bloody Heaven didn’t you  _ stop it _ ?”

“Her,” Aziraphale corrects idly. “I was having tea. She’s not doing any harm.”

“She’s eating my daisies!”

“Come now, Crowley: You don’t even like those daisies.”

“It’s the principle of the thing!” Aziraphale hears him snap his fingers, and when he turns to look over his shoulder, Crowley is in his usual black t-shirt and black jeans. He also has shoes on (although it’s a bit hard to tell, if you don’t know him). “They were starting to get the message! I didn’t intend for them to be  _ pony food _ !”

“Hm,” says Aziraphale, in response.

Crowley makes a disgusted noise, and starts for the door. “I think there’s a riding school or something a few lanes over. Mind giving them a ring? See if they’re missing a pony?”

“Are you sure you won’t need some help?” he calls after his partner, although he is smiling because he already knows the answer.

“I can handle a pony,” the demon grumbles as he stalks from the room. “One little pony. Just call the school, would you, angel?”

Aziraphale does. And throughout the entire duration of the phone call, he feels unspeakably grateful that Crowley had convinced him to put a second land-line in the kitchen*, because the position of the phone allows him an unparalleled view of the events unfolding in the garden.

[*  _ If you’re going to  _ insist _ on having one, Aziraphale, then at least put it somewhere humans put theirs, usually, eh? _ ]

“Yes, hello, is this -” he pauses to consult the telephone book he has sitting open on the table before him, “- Green Meadows Riding School? Ah, capital. Yes, my name is Mr. Fell, over on Cliff Light Drive? Ah … yes, lovely to speak with you Ms Takagi, I’m afraid it’s not a riding lesson I’m asking after. It’s just …” He trails off. In the garden, Crowley has approached the pony. She only comes up just past his waist, but she certainly outweighs him by at least 50 stone, and judging by the way she is watching the demon, ears pinned back and eyes narrowed, she knows it. Crowley is saying something, but with the window closed, Aziraphale can’t make it out.

The lovely Ms Takagi says something, and he startles back to the conversation. “Oh, so sorry! Sorry, I was just wondering if you happen to be missing a pony.” On the other end of the line, she goes silent, which Aziraphale appreciates, if only because it allows him to pay slightly more attention to the way Crowley is approaching the pony slowly, arms stretched out to the side, half-crouching. Every step he takes forward, the pony takes a step back, chewing pensively all the while, her eyes fixed on him. 

Ms Takagi asks what the pony looks like. “Chestnut,” he answers, promptly, and he hears the woman on the other end of the line sigh. “Rather small. No, no white markings at all. Ah! You do know her! Yes, she’s here, in our garden. My partner is trying to catch her, but -” he watches as Crowley reaches for the pony’s mane, and then jumps back when she snakes her head toward him, teeth bared. Even with the window closed, his indignant shout is plainly audible. “She’s a bit feisty, isn’t she?”

Ms Takagi confirms that yes, unfortunately, she is, and assures him that she will be over with a halter and a lead right away. She apologizes profusely, confirms the address, and hangs up. Aziraphale rests the phone in its cradle, and heads for the window, hefting it up in its sash.

“You were right,” he calls to Crowley, who has picked up a trowel and positioned himself with it in front of the veg. “She’s from the school a few lanes over. Her name is Holly. The school - well, Ms Takagi, very kind woman - owns her. She’s on her way to pick her up.”

“Good,” Crowley snaps, waving the trowel at the pony. She watches him for a minute, unimpressed, and then turns her attention back to the remaining daisies. “Great. She’s a bloody menace, is what she is. Oi! Go eat the oleander, ‘f you’re so hungry!”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Isn’t oleander poisonous to equines?”

“We can hope.”

“ _ Crowley _ .” The angel tuts. “I’m sure she’s a lovely pony, if you’d just get to know her.”

Crowley glares at him quickly, before re-raising his trowel and focusing his attention back onto Holly. “I cherish my ignorance on the subject. You know, I’ve always thought ponies were one of ours.”

Holly snorts. Aziraphale supposes that is a good enough answer, for a pony. He remembers a mule he had, centuries ago in Northern England, named Phyllis, and thinks Holly might remind him of her, somewhat, in more ways than just any old equine would. There’s a certain air about her. 

“Well,” he says, deciding to keep his memories of Phyllis to himself - Crowley has his own set of Phyllis-centric memories, and Aziraphale isn’t sure they’re as fond as his own. “I think I’ll put some extra tea on for Ms Takagi, when she arrives, in case she’d like some. Do you think I ought to get a bucket of water for Holly?”

“No,” Crowley replies, shocked at the suggestion. “No! If you feed her, she’ll know she can come back.” He waves the trowel at the pony. “Don’t you even think about it.” He turns back to Aziraphale. “You too.”

Aziraphale considers Crowley coolly for a moment, just long enough to watch the demon’s shoulders sag in defeat, before he smiles and turns from the window, heading for the greenhouse and Crowley’s collection of miscellaneous buckets. “My dear Crowley,” he sighs, as he pushes open the doors to the greenhouse, “I rather think that ship has sailed.”


	2. The Garden

**2**

They don’t see Holly for a while. Ms Takagi is profusely apologetic, offers to replace the daisies and re-plant them, even, after the first incident, and while Crowley refuses (and does not, Aziraphale notes, re-plant daisies again) he later mutters to Aziraphale that at least that should encourage her to keep the pony locked up more securely.

Crowley, true to his history with equines, does not know very much about ponies.

When Holly returns, she appears to have learned from her prior visit, specifically in regards to the location of the vegetable garden. This time it is the vicar, John, who finds her, and he knocks helpfully on the front door to alert them. 

“Hello, John!” Aziraphale says brightly, when he opens the door with a creak. “Good morning! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Ah, er. Morning, Mr. Fell.” He glances to the left, toward the vegetables. “Did you two buy a pony?”

Aziraphale’s face falls. “Oh dear. Is it Holly?”

John looks puzzled. “I don’t see a collar on her,” he admits, apologetic. “Or him. I didn’t take a good look.” 

Aziraphale leans out of the door to see the vegetable garden, and sighs. “Yes, that’s Holly. I’ll call Ms Takagi, won’t be a moment. Thank you for letting me know.” He bites his lip. “I don’t suppose you’re any good with horses.”

John winces. “Not … no. No, I’m from Liverpool. Never been around horses, much.”

“We should get her out of the vegetable garden - I’d hate for her to colic,” Aziraphale murmurs, with a growing sense of cold knowledge that he will be the one to do it. “Would you … sorry, so sorry to bother you - do you have somewhere to be presently?”

“No.” John shakes his head, and jerks a thumb toward the path leading down to the beach. “Was just heading down there to think, work on the sermon for Sunday. What can I do?”

“There’s a phonebook in the kitchen, next to the telephone. I believe Ms Takagi’s business is called Green Meadows Riding School. Would you mind calling her and telling her I have Holly here again? She should remember the address after the last time, I’d think.” He hitches up his trousers and tugs down his sweater vest. “I’ll see if I can persuade the old girl here to wait for her outside of the gate.”

John hesitates at the doorway, wide-eyed. “You know about horses?”

“I’ve been around them now and again. Do you remember your way to the kitchen, dear boy?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Uh. Let me know if you need any help?” He shrugs. “Not sure what I’ll do but …”

“Understood. I’m certain we’ll be fine.” He watches as John shuffles off into the kitchen, and then turns back around, sparing a withering glance at the space the Bentley usually occupies. “Of all the days for you to pop off to London,” he mumbles, before turning back toward the pony. “All right, Holly, that’s quite enough.”

Holly lifts her head and turns to look at him, placidly chewing all the while. From his position, Aziraphale can see a good portion of the vegetable garden has been eaten. He wrings his hands. “Oh, Holly. I’m afraid Crowley is going to be  _ quite _ unhappy with you.”

Holly swishes her tail in response. Aziraphale frowns, and starts to circle around her, approaching her left shoulder. “I’d really prefer if you’d stopped. I know he grows rather good vegetables, but if you could … ah … leave some for us, that would be very polite.” He smiles at the pony and forces a little laugh. She flicks an ear. “Please?”

He waits for her to slowly, deliberately take a bite of cucumber, and his face falls. “Now, really. I’ve had the vicar call your owner, you know.” Holly shakes her head, ostensibly to disturb a fly, although Aziraphale is fairly certain he hadn’t seen any flies. Still scowling, he reaches out, a bit tentative, and pats her on the shoulder. “Come on, girl. Get along.”

When this garners no response besides another ruined cucumber, he pushes against her rather more forcefully once, and again when she ignores him. Finally, he glances furtively around - John is still inside, it would seem, and no word on whether he’d managed to reach Ms Takagi or when someone might be arriving to catch the fugitive Welsh - and then leans down. His halo glows into visibility around his head. “I  _ am _ an angel, you know.”

Holly snorts.

“Well, I never.” The halo winks out, and he straightens back up, arms crossed. He immediately discards the idea to loose his wings: John is just inside, after all, and may be out at any moment, and who knows which neighbors are watching. “I am the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate,” he snaps at her.  _ That _ garners a response at least.

Crowley can talk to some animals - small animals and hive minds are easier, and large animals or highly intelligent creatures are difficult, apparently - but Aziraphale has never found himself possessed of the same ability. Still, Holly looks up at him, and her eyes are clear, as if she understood every word, and he wonders if maybe he has some kind of latent ability. He’s certainly never talked to a horse before, but he’s lived for too long to believe something so mundane as an angel speaking with a horse is impossible.

“Er,” he falters, while the pony watches him coolly. “Ah. Yes. Yes, that’s me. Principality Aziraphale.” He doesn’t step back when she cranes her head around to snuff at his sweater, but it’s a near thing. “For goodness’ sake,” he admonishes himself then, standing up straighter, “it’s just a pony.”

Holly snorts again, expelling a snoutful of snot, spotted with bits of chewed vegetable. He groans. “Oh now  _ really _ . Rude!” Without thinking, he reaches out and grabs a handful of her bushy mane. “I’ve had quite enough of this. Come with me, you can eat the grass outside of the gate.”

Perhaps it’s that he mentioned his old -  _ old _ \- job just before, but he can’t help but recall the last time he tried to escort someone out of a gate for eating forbidden food. That had been a more somber occasion, certainly, and although Adam and Eve had been reluctant to go - tears were shed, on everyone’s part and no mistake - they hadn’t been nearly as indisposed as the russet-colored menace staring him down. “Come on,” he repeats more plaintively, tugging at her mane. “Off we go. Spit-spot.”

Holly watches him coolly. She also does not move a single hoof. Aziraphale sighs. “Please, dear girl, don’t make me do anything  _ unpleasant _ .” She startles a little, still not budging from her spot in the veg, but she also pins her ears at him. “Nothing too unpleasant,” he corrects, hastily. “Nothing harmful. But I’d imagine you won’t enjoy being carried.”

It is, he decides, entirely a figment of his imagination that the pony looks intrigued when he says that. Certainly, she does seem to be unusually astute for a pony, but even a very smart pony can’t be intrigued by something, no more than the ducks at St. James’ could understand the concept of espionage*. She watches him for a minute with that curious - yes, curious, certainly not intrigued - expression on her face. Reluctantly, Aziraphale begins to roll up his shirtsleeves, but then Holly heaves a great pony sigh, and starts to amble toward the gate, a trail of half-chewed veg falling in her wake. Absently, Aziraphale snaps his fingers to clean it up - no sense in Crowley getting more upset than necessary - and follows along behind her, trailing her through the gate and firmly closing it as soon as they both step through.

[*  _ Which just goes to show that Aziraphale  _ really _ has a hard time relating to animals, no matter how much he may like them _ .]

“There,” he says, fiddling with his cuffs to ensure that they are back in place, just so. “Not so terrible, was it?” Holly looks dubious. “And I assure you, dear girl, that if you avoid eating the carrot-tops  _ now _ , I might be able to bring you a few once they’re ripe in a few weeks. He always grows too many,” he adds, on what he assumes is the off-chance that she understands him (she does), and the even more remote chance that she will accept the concept of delayed gratification (she does not). 

Bravely, he reaches out and pats her on the neck. “Good girl.” She curls her lip and turns her rump to him, lowering her head to graze by the gate.

“Hey, you got her!” John steps out of the cottage just then, surprised and smiling. “Nice work!”

Aziraphale shrugs. “She just needed a bit of persuading, was all. She’s a lovely pony, really.” He ignores that Holly responds to that by swishing her tail with just the right trajectory to catch him across the hand with the sting of it. His smile becomes more fixed. “Is Ms Takagi on her way?”

John’s face falls. “Ah, no. Said she wasn’t able to just now, but she’s sending over a student to fetch her home.”

“Well enough.” Aziraphale glances from John, to the pony, and back to the vicar, who is picking his way down the front walk through the riot of garden cosmos Crowley had planted in place of the ill-fated daisies. “Sorry, I’d offer tea or lemonade, but I’m just concerned leaving the poor girl here by the road -”

“No, it’s fine.” John waves a hand. “Understood completely, Mr. Fell. Just glad I could help.” He pauses on the walk and looks to the vegetable garden. Winces. “Crowley’s not going to be very happy, is he?”

“Decidedly not.”

John gives the pony a pitying sort of look. “Poor girl.” 

“Hm? Oh, goodness, he won’t  _ do _ anything,” Aziraphale adds hastily, and he is so busy reassuring John that he doesn’t notice the way Holly stops grazing for a moment, just long enough to glance back to Aziraphale with an ear cocked his way, before she resumes snacking. “Aside from complain a great deal, that is. You know how he is, the old grouch.”

John laughs. “I do, I suppose. I just figured he was more protective of his garden.”

“He is, but he’s still Crowley.” Aziraphale smiles as he thinks of the demon, and then sighs when he imagines the series of complaints he’ll be subjected to upon said demon’s return. He makes a mental note to take out some of Crowley’s favorite wines before he gets home, as a diversionary tactic. “You’re certainly welcome to help yourself to something to drink, of course. I can tell you where everything is, but I’m sorry I can’t be a better host at the moment. Perhaps after Holly is safely on her way -”

“Don’t worry about it,” the vicar assures him, moving forward to lean on the gatepost, the better to idly watch the pony graze her way along the fence. “Really. I’ll stay until we’ve seen her off, and then leave you be. I really should get cracking on that sermon, I’ve got a few ideas …” he trails off mid-thought, and looks to Aziraphale, who immediately senses the subtext and nods with a knowing smile. 

“No, you’ve been such a help, I really do insist. I have biscuits as well,” he adds, to sweeten the deal. John grins. “And you’re more than welcome to run some ideas by me, if you’d like. It can help, you know, to talk things through with another person.”

“Oh, alright.” John shakes his head, still smiling. “Temptation like that, who can resist?”

Holly has turned around again, the better to snuffle around at the grass under Aziraphale’s shoes. The angel scratches her mane idly and smiles, broad and genuine. “I did learn from the best.”


	3. Lessons Learned

**3**

Holly reappears a scant few months later, in the late summer, just before school re-starts. But this time, she is accompanied. Aziraphale and Crowley are in the front garden enjoying the afternoon: Aziraphale had talked Crowley into a game of checkers a few hours ago, and then one game had become two, and soon enough they were set up, keeping tally of wins and losses, only occasionally leaving the little cafe table to refill drinks or, in Aziraphale’s case, get more snacks. Crowley tries to use the distraction to cheat once or twice, but Aziraphale always catches him, and resets the pieces while grumbling all the while about the relative trustworthiness of demons and serpents, and waxing philosophical on whether Crowley’s inherent compulsion to cheat is enhanced by having the nature of both, or whether they cancel each other out.

“I’d lean toward the cancelling out,” Crowley says with a snicker, watching Aziraphale reset the pieces back to precisely where they had been before his most recent refill of cheese and crackers. “You met many other demons, angel?”

“Not that I’ve enjoyed the company of quite so much. Even if you do cheat,” he adds, re-setting the last piece and sitting back down. “Right, now where was I. Yes, I was -” and then he stops, because there is a rather unusual sound echoing down the street that prompts both of them to lose focus on the game and look around. 

The sound is of clattering hoofbeats and, a bit less apparent, a child’s laughter. Coming down the lane, Aziraphale can see a now-familiar chestnut pony, under the dubious control of a small child who is also rather familiar.

“Is that that pony?” Crowley growls, half-standing, by all appearances ready to jump the fence and tackle the poor creature. “See if it gets in here this time, the little -”

“That’s Ava riding her, isn’t it?” Aziraphale’s brows furrow together, concern etched on his face. “I’m not entirely sure she’s in control. But she is laughing, so I suppose there’s that.”

“Woah!” The little girl and her pony are drawing closer, Holly loping along, head up and ears picked, her trajectory curving more gradually toward the cottage at the end of the road. She slows gently, leaving Ava un-jostled, and then eventually draws to a halt at the garden fence, panting a little but ears pricked as she rests her chin on the top, her hot breath ruffling Aziraphale’s hair a bit as she puffs on him.

Crowley looks rather less amused, standing there, glaring down at the pony with arms crossed. Ava - and indeed, it is the little neighbor girl that’s perched on Holly’s back - is apparently oblivious, and beams up at Crowley from the tack. “Hi, Crowley! Holly brought me to your house!”

“It would seem she did,” he confirms, still glaring at the pony. “Did you ask Holly to bring you to our house?”

She beams, the gap where her two front teeth ought to be on full display. The entire picture, including the rather grumpy demon, is unspeakably adorable, and Azirpahale smiles in a way he usually reserves for things like baby animals and Crowley talking in his sleep*. “No! I was in my lesson with Miss Takagi and Holly decided to bring me here!”

[* _Most memorably, recently: “I am the crepe master, ‘Ziraph’le said so an’ you’re jusss’ a_ muffin _.” On waking, Crowley had pretended he did not remember the dream and refused to elaborate, but the way the back of his neck turned red implied otherwise. Still, Aziraphale hadn’t pushed it._ ]

Aziraphale pats Holly on the forehead, mussing up her mass of forelock. “That was a bit naughty of her, don’t you think?”

Ava shakes her head. “No. Know why?”

“Why?” Crowley asks, arms still crossed, but posture a bit softer. Just a bit. Holly is accepting the pats offered by Aziraphale as they talk, but her eye is fixed on Crowley, studying. Aziraphale wonders what she is thinking. He also wonders if he really wants to know. The pony switches her tail and then looks away, mind obviously made up but no one the wiser for it, and begins to nuzzle the moss on top of the garden fence. 

“Because,” Ava says, dropping her voice to a conspiratory whisper, “when I was brushing her before my lesson? I told her about how you made those gingerbread cookies that were so good, Mr. Fell. I think she wants some!”

“Ah,” says Crowley, at the same time Aziraphale frowns and says, “Well … I suppose ponies would like that sort of thing. But I’d think cookies aren’t really something naughty ponies ought to get, do you?”

“I didn’t fall off her,” says Ava, by way of an answer. 

Crowley looks down the road and sees a harassed-looking woman in jodhpurs and boots jogging their way. “Is that your teacher then?”

Ava looks around, and Azirpahale doesn’t miss how Holly shifts her weight and posture, just a little, to keep the little girl astride. He snaps his fingers once, as subtly as he can, behind his back, and a gingerbread cookie appears in his palm. “Oh, yeah! Hi Miss Takagi!”

“Are you alright , Ava?” Closer now, the instructor slows to a brisk walk, huffing a little and trying to catch her breath. “You gave me a fright! Did she run off with you?”

“Kinda,” Ava admits, but then she shrugs. Aziraphale slips the cookie to Holly quickly, before Ms Takagi gets close enough to notice. Crowley glares at him, and he shrugs. “But she brought me here! An’ she didn’t do anything else naughty, and I’m always safe with Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley, so it’s alright.”

Ms Takagi - a wiry, energetic woman who had, Aziraphale had learned in his prior meetings with her re: Holly, moved to England from Gotemba in her teens to work under the tutelage of some acclaimed rider or another, and had stayed to further her own riding career - eventually draws even with the rest of them, hands propped on her hips. “Be that as it may,” she says, partially to Ava but moreso to Holly, “she can’t just be trotting off like that. Did you say whoa?”

Ava shrugs. “A bit. But it was a bit fun, too.”

“Ava.” Ms Takagi spares a brief, despairing look to Crowley and Aziraphale. “Right, well, we’ll have to get you cross-country schooling, I suppose, if you’re going to be running out on your lessons.”

“Really?” Ava’s eyes light up as her smile widens. “Can I ride Holly?”

Ms Takagi’s mouth thins as she looks back to the pony. “Maybe.” Her tone suggests that first, she and Holly are going to have Words. “If she behaves herself.”

Ava nods solemnly and leans forward, half crawling up the pony’s neck, the better to whisper in her ear, “You have to behave, Holly. No more being naughty.” Holly continues to snuffle along the top of the garden fence, double-checking that the moss has not, somehow, grown carrots in the intervening minutes.

Ms Takagi turns her attention to Crowley and Aziraphale, and shakes her head, clipping a lead to Holly’s bit. “She must  _ really _ like your vegetable garden. Sorry, I really don’t know why she keeps running off over here!” With her free hand, she makes a vague gesture of confusion, and defeat. “She’s never done anything like this before! I mean she’s still a bit young, but she’s always been, well,  _ fairly _ well-behaved. For a pony.”

“‘Pony’ is a four-letter word,” Crowley grumbles, still watching Holly. The pony flicks her ear in response.

“Isn’t that the truth.” Ms Takagi laughs. “My coach always says surely God made horses, but then it follows that the Devil made ponies.” She pats Holly’s neck. “They’ve all got a bit of mischief in them."

“I’m fairly certain God made both,” Aziraphale says, absently, and Crowley rolls his eyes, a muttered, “ _ Angel _ ,” slipping out. He smiles instead, cheerful in the face of Ms Takagi’s somewhat confused expression, and adds, “Biblically, I suppose, anyway. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

Crowley snorts. Ms Takagi looks between them and then laughs, somewhat uneasily. “Well, it’s just a saying, anyway. One of those things they say.”

“Ah, the ubiquitous ‘they’.” Crowley nods. “Understood.” An uneasy silence settles, Holly breaking it by chomping on her bit a few times, and Crowley looks to Ava. “Right, well, back to your lesson I should think, yes?”

“Yes,” Ms Takagi agrees, before Ava can say anything. “We have more to practice, Ava, remember? You have your show in two weeks!”

“A show?” Aziraphale asks, genuinely interested. “I didn’t know you had gone to any shows.”

Ava beams proudly. “It’s my first one! I’m doing Introductory class!”

Ms Takagi can’t help but smile at that. “Test A, right? So come on, we have to practice! Do you remember your test yet?”

“Um, I come in at A, and then I stop at X, and then … um.” She looks down, thoughtful, and Ms Takagi shakes her head, mouthing another silent apology and a thanks to Crowley and Azirpahale. She begins to lead the pony away, back up the road, and Ava starts. “Oh! Can’t Holly have a cookie before we go? Ponies like gingerbread.”

“I don’t think naughty ponies should have cookies,” Aziraphale says, although Holly is watching him hopefully. “Perhaps …” he glances to Crowley, just for a moment, and then says, “Why don’t you tell us how your show goes in two weeks, and if Holly is well-behaved, she can have more cookies then.”

“Okay!” Ava agrees eagerly.

Ms Takagi nods, and then looks from Aziraphale to Ava. “Would you want them to come watch you compete?” She adds, more to Crowley and Aziraphale, “If it’s alright with your mother, of course, but it’s just down at the school, if you’d like.”

“Maybe,” Crowley says, before Ava can say anything. “Ask your mother, first, alright?” Ava nods, and Crowley waves a hand at her, as if to shoo her off. “Alright. Now go learn your pattern thing. Meter’s running, I think.”

Ms Takagi laughs at that, walking away with the pony in tow, and Ava asking, “What’s that mean? Does Holly have a meter?”

Crowley sighs, not looking at Aziraphale. “We’re going to that show, I assume?”

“Absolutely.” Aziraphale is already facing him, so when the demon turns he is immediately met with the full force of Aziraphale’s sweetest, most beseeching expression. “And Holly did  _ so _ like your gingerbread cookies. You know, I think she even knows you made them, no matter what Ava says.”

Crowley’s scowl wobbled a little, nearly twitching into a smile. “Yeah, I saw that. And I doubt she knows who made them - she’s a pony, Aziraphale, not a person. Ava doesn’t even know I make them.”

“Because you insist on lying to the neighbors to preserve your image, dear.” Aziraphale sits down, and gestures to the game they’d been playing. “I’m sure Holly will appreciate a fresh batch after her exhibition.”

“I’m sure she will,” Crowley says, not bothering to argue, slumping forward to rest his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. “Who’s turn was it?”

“Yours, I believe.” Aziraphale picks up a piece and moves it, while Crowley sputters his objections. “But if I count the piece you moved while Ms Takagi and I were talking, then it’s mine.” He looked up to Crowley. “I did notice, my dear demon.” Crowley grumbles, and Aziraphale sits back in his chair, hands folded in his lap, watching as Holly, Ava, and Miss Takagi turn the corner at the end of the road and disappear behind the hedge.


	4. Holly "The Ice Pony"

**4**

Aziraphale is at a book auction. He’s been there for two entire days, and Crowley has been making full use of his time alone to rearrange the houseplants and re-pot the ones in need of it. He is in the back garden, in the little hydrangea grove behind the shed, working at a scratched up old potting table*. It’s one of his favorite spots, and indeed one of the most enviable on the entire property, because it overlooks the cliffs and the sea, but the bushes shelter it from the worst of the weather. Additionally, it’s also sheltered from prying eyes, which Crowley finds even more beneficial because it means he can let out his wings and other demon-adjacent features a bit, the better for plant intimidation.

[*  _ Those who know Crowley might be surprised by such a table, so far from his usual fastidious and sleek aesthetic, but Crowley found there was a certain je-ne-sais-quois to repotting plants, especially woody plants, on the bones of their fallen ancestors. _ ]

Besides, the claws have an edge - haha - on fingers when it comes to tearing up root balls.

He is doing just that, tearing the tangled roots apart and hissing threats and obscenities to the plant, all while simultaneously nestling the freed roots into a new, larger pot full of fresh soil. He’s intent on his current project - a fairly petulant pothos that has been nothing but trouble but also so verdant he can’t help but like the thing - and therefore the sudden appearance of a pony catches him unawares.

“Shit!” He jumps back, instinctively lifting his wings to make himself appear larger, claws and fangs bared and scales rippling into reality along his wrists and arms. Then he realizes that it isn’t any kind of human, or angel, or even demon**, and he folds his wings back to his sides while the more demonic features fade back away. “Oh, bloody Heaven. Holly, isn’t it?”

[**  _ Although countless equestrians and riding instructors might beg to differ _ .] 

Holly looks unimpressed. 

“Well, this is awkward.” Crowley folds his arms over his chest and taps his foot a few times. “Don’t you know better than to barge in on people in their own yards?”

She shakes her head and snorts. Crowley rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m a person. That’s prejudiced, you know - just because I’m a demon doesn’t make me any less of a person.” Holly cocks an ear, and Crowley hisses. “Cheek. You’re lucky I’m retired, s’all I’ll say about it.” He turns his attention back to the pothos. “Found the gate closed, did you? I’m not stupid - fool me once, you know the saying.”

Holly is watching him work, occasionally snurfing at the hydrangea but deciding against sampling it. Crowley wonders if they’re toxic to horses as he pats the new soil into place, and makes a mental note to look it up later, although he also assures himself it’s just because he wants to  _ know _ , and not because he  _ cares. _ Seeking knowledge is fine, he reasons, as long as he doesn’t do it because he’s mildly concerned that some plants might be toxic to horses.

He’s finishing settling the pothos into its new pot, back to fingers now, instead of claws, the better to wipe the exterior of the pot free of soil, when a rustling noise catches his attention. He glances up, and sees Holly, her neck stretched over the fence as far as she can, snuffling at a fern he’s planning to work on next. It’s just out of her reach, but she’s trying anyway, flapping her lips at the fronds which have curled back away and are trembling. He stops, eyes narrowed, and then smirks. 

“Told you you wouldn’t like what happened if you didn’t stop sending out runners,” he hisses to the fern. Holly watches carefully as he reaches out to grab the pot, shaking it a little. “There’ll be no propagation in my house without my express say-so, isn’t that right?” Two of the stolons instantly wilt. Crowley hums. “Not bad, but I see a few more … if you’re so eager to grow, maybe your energy would be better spent on the leaves?” He starts to move the plant toward Holly, who pricks her ears and stretches out eagerly, nostrils flaring in anticipation of a snack. And then, at the last minute, he snatches the plant back. Holly whickers indignantly. “I’d better not see a single runner when I come back this afternoon, or you get the pony.” He sets the pot down on the table, and crosses his arms, glaring at the fern for good measure. “Think I’ll let her hang about, just to be  _ sure  _ you cooperate.”

The plant trembles, and one of the remaining stolons browns slightly. Crowley nods, satisfied. When he looks up, Holly is definitely glaring at him. “What?” He comes around the table, the better to lean stiff-armed on the fence and meet eyes with her. “There’s a great bloody meadow back there, I won’t call your boss on you for a bit, all you have to do is not fall off the cliffs and maybe eat a fern at the end of it.” Behind him, the fern’s rustling intensifies. A stolon falls clean off.

Holly looks less than impressed. In fact, she’s downright grumpy: ears pinned, lip curled, tail swishing irritably, she stares Crowley down, her eye rolling to reveal the white and make the look of it all the more threatening. Crowley, in spite of himself but perhaps due to his track record with horses, feels slightly grateful for the fence between them. “You want a treat now? Well I’m fresh out of cookies, sorry.” He turns away, half a mind to bide his time by taking a nap in the sunshine, when something catches his wing. He freezes and then, slowly, so slowly, turns his head to glare at the pony.

She has the leading edge of his wing, just the very end of it, held firmly but painlessly in her teeth. And she is still glaring at him. He starts to twist around - she grabbed the bad one, of course she would - gingerly, fangs lengthening, but she snorts and tugs, very slightly, just enough to send a little twinge through the badly-healed wrist. “Let go,” he hisses, “and maybe I won’t eat you.”

She loosens her grip, but she also flicks her ears and rolls her eyes once. “Will too,” he replies. “You don’t even  _ know _ . Serpent of Eden, me. Responsible for the downfall of Man? Ring any bells?”

After a moment’s consideration, Holly lets his wing go. He opens his mouth to snarl at her, tucking his wings away and out of biting range, but she cuts him off with a shrill whinny, followed by a snort, and then a pointed look from him, to the fern, and then back to him. Crowley props his hands on his hips. “So you think you can blackmail me? Hold me hostage in my own bloody garden? You’ve got  _ nerve _ , pony.” She huffs again, looking back to the fern, and then out to the meadow between the cottage and the cliffs, her expression full of disdain. “Well you’re hardly starving,” Crowley says, and then he jumps back, because she snakes her head out and takes a bite at his belly. 

“Fine!” He holds up his hands, and lowers his voice, sparing a glance over toward the fern. “ _ Fine _ . I’ll pay you.” He holds up a finger. “Wait here.”

While Crowley stalks inside, beating a path toward the kitchen, his shoes miraculously clean as soon as he crosses the threshold. He grumbles to himself about hit men. Honestly, they get more demanding every time he tries to hire one, he would swear it. Back in the bad old days he could talk a handful of villagers into following him around and prying him out of a suit of armor for just a few beers per week, and the promise of bread. Now he is being extorted for cookies by a quadrupedal chestnut menace for the privilege of maybe eating a fern later. Back in those days, a pony would be  _ grateful _ for a well-kept fern. They would wait three hours and graze on meadow, and they wouldn’t complain about it. 

Crowley realizes, as he rummages around in a cabinet for a box of ginger snaps, that he sounds very, very old while pursuing this train of thought, but  _ it’s true _ , and he’s annoyed enough that he doesn’t care. He shakes the box and hears the rattle of a few cookies still inside, and turns back toward the garden, shoulders hunched and cookie box clamped under his arm like it might try to escape.

Holly is waiting for him outside, patiently stood by the back fence. She watches him with fixed interest, though she is certainly particularly interested in the cookie box. As he draws closer, he digs a few ginger snaps free, and sets them on the top of the fence for her. “There. Adequate?” She snaps them up, chewing with enthusiasm, and eyes the box under his arm. “No, no. No, that was enough. I wasn’t really asking.” He ensures the box is closed and then tosses it over his shoulder, back toward the cottage, to free his hands up to swing himself up onto the fence. “So,” he says, balancing himself and somehow managing to slouch on the top of the stones, hands on his knees, “level with me. Why do you keep coming back?”

Holly looks to the garden for a long minute, and then back to Crowley. “It’s not even got anything in it, yet,” he says, glancing back at it over his shoulder. “Be a few more weeks at the earliest. You’re a smart pony, you had to know that.” He watches her, but no clear answer seems forthcoming. Not immediately, anyway. Then, cautiously, she steps toward him, watching him warily all the way. Eventually, she is close enough to bump her snout against his chest, and she does just that, sniffing at his shirt as she does. Crowley, very much in spite of himself, blushes as he scoffs. “Nah, come off it. You’ve got kids that adore you at your place, and what’s-her-name seems to like you an awful lot.” The pony shakes her whole body, mane and forelock tossing as she does, and Crowley leans back a bit. “Well, alright. I get not wanting to work. It’s tempting.” She snorts, and he laughs with her.

This time, the quiet that comes is more comfortable. The waves crash against the cliffs, the breeze whispers through the grass, and birds chirp overhead. Idly, Crowley reaches out to Holly and picks a stick from her mane. Then another. “What’d you do, run through a hedgerow to get here?” he asks, after the fourth stick. Holly snorts. “Then don’t do that next time.” She sidles closer, broadside to him, and with the easier access to her mane he really settles into grooming her, picking out twigs and knots alike, combing each strand of mane free. She already has a fluffy mane, and he’s just making it fluffier: By the time he is finished, she looks absolutely ridiculous. 

“You look like you got electrocuted,” Crowley tells her with an amused little snicker. Holly has settled into a nap, one back leg cocked at rest, but she twitches an ear to him at that, her near eye sliding open just enough to glare at him. “I can fix it.” He brushes down the mane with a hand, and starts to braid. “If anyone finds out it’s me that did this,” he tells her conversationally, fingers flicking through the wiry hair, “I’ll never live it down. I’m supposed to be a demon, you know. Well,  _ you _ know. They don’t know.” He rolls a shoulder vaguely in the direction of the rest of the village. “They’re just supposed to think I’m extremely cool and a bit of a bastard.” He frowns when she lets loose a series of whickers and snorts in response to that. “I am cool.”

The french braid stretches down her neck as he works, and Crowley goes on talking, because Holly is a pony, and who is she going to tell? “I’ve never much got on with horses,” he tells her. “They always threw me off. Might have been riding the wrong sort of horse.” She shakes her head, and he scowls in response. “Bit rude of you, don’t you think?” A tail swish. “Fine. See if I do this for you again,” he replies, although he doesn’t stop braiding until the plait is finished, smooth and orderly down the length of her neck. He runs his hand down it, tucking in a few loose flyaways, and nods, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Done. Looks nice. Don’t tell anyone who’s responsible.”

Holly flicks an ear. Who would she tell? The other horses? Crowley shrugs. “Fair point.” He slides down off the wall on Holly’s side, and starts to swagger over to the potting table with the pony at his heels. “Let’s see about that fern, hm?”

The fern, in spite of its best efforts, still has one stolon. Crowley clambers over the fence and lifts the pot up, studying the solitary runner. “Well, you made an effort, I’ll give you that.” He turns around, the plant held out to Holly. “But you still failed - not quite there, I’m afraid. Holly, would you do the honors?”

The pony sniffs at the plant, which is now visibly trembling in its pot, the lone remaining stolon coiling back toward the body of the plant in an attempt to hide. She nuzzles a few of the fronds, and then withdraws her nose, looking instead toward Crowley. 

“Lost your nerve?” Crowley pokes at the lush plant. “Come on, pony, it’s probably really delicious. Choice pony treats.” Holly looks pointedly back toward the cottage, where Crowley had tossed the box of biscuits earlier. “No, no more of them. Those are done. Eat the fern, go on.” Holly shook her head. “What?  _ Come on _ , don’t get cold feet on me now. You’re supposed to be my ice man! Woman. Pony.”

“Fine,” he says after a few seconds in which Holly resolutely refuses to take even a nibble of the fern. “Alright. I suppose it did try.” He glares at the plant. “Perhaps … you know much about the mafia, Holly?”

The pony shakes her head, and Crowley rolls his eyes. Of course she doesn’t. Amateurs.

“What the mob does,” he explains slowly, ensuring the pony is paying attention and, more importantly, the plant, “is intimidation. Yeah, this pathetic excuse for a fern  _ tried _ , but it didn’t succeed, did it? But it nearly did. So perhaps we just … shake it up a little?” He holds the plant out toward Holly. “Just a frond. Just - yeah, that one there. Just one. It’s like taking a finger off a human, just to show ‘em you’ll carry through next time.”

Holly considers the fern, and the plant trembles. Then, carefully, Holly nuzzles one of the fronds before she delicately nips it off at the base.

The remaining stolon falls off.

“See!” Crowley straightens up, beaming at the fern. “Not so hard! Shame about the frond, but you’ll grow that right back,  _ won’t you _ ?” As if in response, a fiddlehead bursts forth from the new soil. Crowley strokes the fronds gently. “ _ Very _ good.” He sets the pot aside and turns back to Holly. “Nice work, Ice Pony.”

Holly puffs out a breath by way of responding.

“Suppose you ought to be getting home. They’re going to notice you’re missing eventually.” Holly looks into the garden, wistfully, and Crowley steps into her line of sight. “Oy,  _ no _ . Tell you what, you stay out of the garden uninvited, and I’ll make sure a few extra veg find their way to your stable. Deal?” He leans on the fence, the better to meet her eye-to-eye. “You help me with some of the houseplants,” he goes on in a low voice, “and maybe I’ll even leave the gate open now and then, hm?” Holly perks up at that. Tentatively, Crowley reaches a hand out to her, and she bumps her muzzle into his palm. “Right. Deal.” He jerks his head toward the road. “Now go home before anyone catches you here.”

Holly shakes her head, and looks firmly back toward the cottage, nose outstretched. Her nostrils flare. Crowley follows her gaze. “Come off it, no you can’t have one for the road.” She nips at him again, and he jumps back. “Hey! No! Definitely not now!”

This time, when Holly snakes her head out toward him, he’s not quite fast enough. She catches him with her teeth, just a bit of flesh, and he yelps and pulls away, yanking his shirt up. “That’s gonna bruise you bloody menace!” Sure enough, there is the distinct impression of pony teeth on his side, clearly printed over the old web of scars from a binding gone … well, gone. He scowls at it. “You see this?” he demands, pointing at his side. Black scales are already creeping into being over the bite, a bit of demonic healing at work. Holly snorts at it and jumps backwards. “Right! I  _ am _ a demon. I told you so. Sserpent of Eden, even.”

He leans back onto the fence, elbows braced, and glares at her. “Doessn’t bode well for our deal, doess it?”

There is a moment of quiet while the pony considers him, one hind leg cocked, ready to bolt. And then she looks at the garden, and the cottage, and at Crowley and, slowly, shuffles forward. Her whiskers brush the back of his hand first, followed by the soft press of her nose, and a warm puff of air. She watches him the whole time, ears laid to the side. He nods.

“You know what they say about biting the hand that feeds, then, hm?” He leans in. “You want it to keep feeding you, then you  _ don’t bite it _ .”

Holly nods and lowers her head. Crowley scowls at her for long enough that her lips start to twitch, her attention drifting from him to the lush grass on her side of the fence. 

“I appreciate the absolute ruthlessness, though,” he adds after a bit, while Holly is nuzzling the tips of the blades of grass. Crowley chuckles. “I mean, you met Aziraphale, yeah? Wouldn’t be the first time I got bitten over a treat.” Holly pins her ears at him. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. The angel likes his sweets. One time,” he says, laughing even as he starts the story, “I was holding this tart, not really paying attention, you know on my phone or whatever between bites, and he was next to me reading, and I guess he wasn’t paying attention either because he went for the stupid thing and nearly had my fingers off. You know how hard it is to regrow fingers when you’re actually a serpent?” Holly shakes her head. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. But it’s hard, I’ll tell you that.”

Without thinking, he reaches out and scritches at her forelock, between her ears. Holly tilts her head, guiding his fingers to a better spot, and her eyes drift half-closed, her ears loose and relaxed to the side. He stops eventually, rubs a hand along her fuzzy ears, and then pats her on the neck. “Right, off you go. Don’t tell anyone what happened here.”

Resigned, Holly shakes her braided mane once more, the liver-dark hair gleaming with bursts of orange in the sun, and then starts off around the fence toward the front of the cottage and, gradually, down the road. Once clear of the cottage altogether, she breaks into a little shuffling trot. Crowley strolls around to the side of the house just to watch, hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall. When she’s gone, he straightens up, and turns to his garden. He looks over all the plants, and hisses.

“Ssse that pony?” He gestures down the road, the way Holly had gone. “Yeah? That’sss the new enforcsser!” He flicks his forked tongue out at a particularly unruly rhododendron. “You put a stem out of line - a  _ leaf _ \- and it’ss gonna be me and Holly out here, alright?” His eyes narrow. “And if any one of you  _ dares _ poison her, I’ll know. And you  _ really _ don’t want to know what happenss then.”

He stalks the length of the fence, all around the cottage, one time. When he is finished, he heads for the back door, scoops up the box of sweets on the way in, and lets the door rattle closed behind him, leaving a garden full of trembling plants in his wake.


	5. 401(k)

**5**

In the fall, when the competition season is done, Ms Takagi usually takes a handful of students to ride at the beach, to condition the horses and let off steam. It becomes a familiar sight after years in the cottage, the riding instructor and her handful of students trotting by on the road, down the sloping trail toward the shore, and Crowley and Aziraphale get used to it, even come to watch for it. 

Holly is usually among the groups, with Ava early on and then with a string of other children as they each outgrow her in turn. If Crowley or Aziraphale is in the garden, regardless of the skill of her jockey, Holly will stop and wait patiently at the fence for an offering - fresh fruit or vegetables - before trotting on her way. When Aziraphale has the opportunity, he fills Holly (and Ms Takagi) in on the activities of her former student, Ava, as she pursues her riding career through the upper levels. “She’s got her sights set on the Olympics,” Aziraphale tells Ms Takagi one time, as Holly carefully nibbles at an apple around her bit and the little boy mounted on her laughs. 

“Always did have stars in her eyes, that girl. Is she still riding that mad thoroughbred?”

“Still,” Aziraphale replies with a nod. “And he’s getting less mad these days. I believe Crowley had a talk with him before Houghton last year. Ava insists that’s why they won.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Ms Takagi grins. “Holly certainly seems to like you and Crowley, so I don’t see why even a mad thoroughbred wouldn’t either.” She snorts out a laugh. “Or at least listen to you, eh?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Aziraphale agrees solemnly with a nod, before he wipes his hands off on the smooth stone of the fence and gives Holly a little pat on the nose. “I think Crowley went down to the beach for the day, speaking of. Say hello to him, if you see him.”

Ms Takagi nods. Holly’s fee paid, she urges her own mount toward the trail to the beach, and the students’ horses and ponies fall into line behind her. Aziraphale watches them as they go before he takes out his very elderly Nokia and starts to laboriously construct a message: ‘C - Horses and ponies are bound for the beach. Please look human. Love - A’.

-

By the time the riders arrive, Crowley does look human. And, well, if there’s a series of unusual marks in the sand that might have been made by a fifty foot-long winged serpent, well, strange winds we’ve been having, have you noticed? Of course you have. Very strange.

Crowley watches them gallop from a bench by the car park. He is sprawled out, head lolling on the back of the bench, legs outstretched. It’s a warm, sunny day, perfect for a lazy bask in the sand, and although he’s mildly irritated at the interruption it  _ is _ a public beach. Besides, it’s later afternoon, and Aziraphale had made reservations at the new tapas place in Brighton, and they’ll need to leave in the next hour or so if they plan on being on-time. He picks up his phone, wipes off a few grains of sand and the suspicious-looking smudge that  _ might _ have resembled the tip of a gigantic be-scaled snout, and idly starts paging through the apps available, half a mind to take just a bit longer on the bench in the sunshine before heading home …

A car pulls into the car park, and a harassed-looking woman jumps out. Crowley vaguely recognizes her as a resident of the town, but he’s not nearly as in-touch with all of the locals as Aziraphale is, and so he can’t claim to know her name. She knows his, though, and she calls to him, walking closer, her trainers slipping in the sand once she’s clear of the pavement.

“Anthony! Have you seen our Wes?”

“Uh,” he replies, eloquently. Silver-tongued Serpent of Eden, that’s him.

“Only he was supposed to come down here with Ms Takagi and the rest of his lesson group to ride, she said, but I’ve got to bring him with me to go get his brother - he got sick at his rugby practice, can you believe? - because we have to go up to my mum’s after and it’s all a bit of a mess.” Crowley nods, wide-eyed behind his glasses. 

“Oh,” he says, and then he points down the beach. “I think I saw them go riding that way.”

“Argh.” She props her hands on her hips and squints down the beach in the direction he indicated. “I don’t suppose you know how long it’ll be before they come back?”

He shakes his head and answers, “No idea.”

“Well, bugger. Do you at least know where their usual route is? Maybe I can flag them down …”

In the end, Crowley leads her out onto the beach to where the horses seemed to have passed, if the torn-up sand is any indication. She says she can see them a ways off, but it looks like they’re headed back, and so she starts waving her arms. Crowley steps aside, in the event that they’re coming a little too fast, but as the group draws closer they start to pull up, Ms Takagi in the lead. 

The woman hastily explains her dilemma to Ms Takagi, apologizing profusely at every opportunity. Wes, the little boy mounted on the pony Crowley immediately recognizes as Holly, looks disappointed, but nevertheless dismounts and takes his mother’s hand, the two of them hurrying back to the car and on their way. 

Crowley is starting to move to leave, when he hears the riding instructor call his name. “Mr. Crowley? Sorry, ah …” He turns around to face her. She is holding Holly’s reins, still mounted on her own horse, and she looks a bit worried. “Could I … bother you for a favor?”

“Ah … maybe?” He eyes Holly warily. “What sort of favor?”

Behind her, the remaining students are wide-eyed. They’re not  _ afraid _ of Crowley per se, goodness no, but it’s been 20 years now since he and Aziraphale moved to the village, and there are … rumors. Children are always more imaginative than adults, but this far in even the adults have started to mutter about how he and Aziraphale don’t age, how the garden always seems more vibrant than anyone else’s, how good fortune seems to follow Aziraphale around, and all sorts of similar things. Crowley, who likes to keep an ear to the ground, metaphorically speaking, heard from the vicar, John, that most people are of the opinion that Aziraphale is a white wizard of some kind, and Crowley is a familiar in human guise, or maybe a friend that Aziraphale had gifted with immortality. It’s put the local kids a bit in awe of him, and no doubt when they see Ms Takagi asking him for a favor they are wondering about all the multitudinous ways it could go very wrong.

“Well, I’d hate to cut their lesson short,” she says, nodding over her shoulder to the students. “But Holly really doesn’t need the exercise anymore, getting on like she is, and I wondered if you’d be able to just … hold on to her for another twenty minutes or so while we finish up? She does like you.” She smiles, her expression pleading. “Of course, if it’s any trouble at all don’t worry, I’ll just bring her with us, but -”

“Nah.” Crowley waves a hand and walks over, taking the reins from Ms Takagi, who looks immediately grateful. “No trouble.”

“Thank you, thank you,” she says quickly, clasping her hands together and bowing her head a little. “I really appreciate it. I’m sure she’ll even stand for you if you wanted to head back to your bench - she does really seem to like you.” She grins and laughs. “Of course, you could always ride her back home if you’re feeling really adventurous, although you’re a  _ bit _ tall …”

Crowley snorts. “Think I’ll pass on that. I’ve never been much good at riding.”

“And I think your feet might drag on the ground,” she adds.

“Might do, yeah.” Crowley turns away, Holly tagging along behind him through the sand. He raises his hand to wave at the group over his shoulder, and half-watches out of the corner of his eye as they trot off down the beach in the opposite direction. Holly seems just as pleased to follow him to the bench, and when he finally sits down, legs stretched out once more, she drops her nose to rest on the bench beside him with a heavy sigh.

“Rough life?” Crowley asks, his left hand drifting to her forelock almost of its own volition and combing through a few of the tangles there. “Same.”

She doesn’t respond save to flicker her ears back and forth. Crowley keeps brushing the strands of forelock loose from one another, fluffing the hair out until her eyes are essentially invisible, hidden behind the mass of chestnut fluff. “You know what you need to do,” he says after a while in companionable silence, over the murmur of waves crashing on the shore, “is retire. S’what I did, sort of. Er, I suppose I got fired, a bit. Either way. Doesn’t mean you have to do nothing though - you can freelance and stay interested. Something to do, you know.” He isn’t sure why he’s discussing this with a pony, and Holly is almost certainly not listening, her eyes half-closed and ears flopped out to the sides, but he rambles on all the same. “You can’t just sit around and do nothing, you know? I tried that for a bit, didn’t like it. Thank humanity for the internet.”

He considers what ponies do when they’re retired, since Holly doesn’t seem to be inclined to say: back in the days when he’d been around horses more often, he had just sold them on the minute he no longer needed them. They graze, he supposes. Wander around in a field and graze and not be ridden. Not a bad life; Aziraphale would probably be downright chuffed to have the same retirement as a pony, if you could swap the field for a library and desserts for grass.Crowley wonders if he should bring that up later, maybe as a joke, and thinks better of it. Aziraphale had already been in a snit with him last week over an ill-timed remark about traveling to active war zones for nibbles (French Revolution, anyone?), probably best to leave jokes about food lie for the moment.

Holly snores gently, distracting Crowley from his reverie. He is still patting her forelock, but her eyes are fully shut now, her breathing slow and measured, one hind leg cocked and at rest. He brushes aside a mass of hair, and for the first time notices the peppered gray above her eyes and across her forehead. She nods a little, not really waking, and it occurs to Crowley that Holly has been in the village as long as he and Aziraphale have, and how old do ponies live to be, anyway? Certainly not as long as humans, right? He considers searching for the answer online, but then when he considers it is a sunny day and he’d have to use the text reader, he thinks it might be a little rude for Holly to overhear, and decides to wait until later.

But certainly not that long. She is gray on her face, and low in her back, and now that Crowley thinks about it, the last time he sent her home from browsing through his garden she was a good deal slower than he remembered her being years ago. The children he sees riding her now are smaller, and younger, and fewer and far between.

“What do ponies do when they retire?” he murmurs, scritching the front of her nose gently. 

-

There is a field behind the cottage garden, usually open and unmown and wild, long grass waving in the sea air in the summer and fall. Aziraphale and Crowley rarely bother with it; Aziraphale prefers to think of leaving it open for the wildlife, but he likes the view. In fact, he is admiring it in just the moment when Crowley decides he should do something about pony retirement, and what better place for a pony to retire than with two other retired old bastards?

“Oh,” he says, and his tea sloshes a little in his cup when the sudden appearance of a wooden fence and a little shed out of the wind takes him by surprise. He blinks, takes stock of the new additions, and then allows himself a quiet little sigh and smile. “ _ Terrible _ demon,” he murmurs, and takes a sip of tea.


	6. Our Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of animal death/temporary character death

**+1**

The last thing the demon says to her before she dies is “Kick Gabriel when you see him.” Holly is not sure who Gabriel is, but she is not very sure she much fancies the idea of kicking anybody  _ except _ her demon. She knows she is dying, of course, but it is painless and peaceful, and at the ripe old age of 35, Holly the pony drifts from her Earthly body and enters the afterlife, scrambling to her feet on the lush green grass which is already fading. 

There is a large white horse in her field. Holly decides she doesn’t like it, and pins her ears at it.

THAT’S NOT VERY NICE. Holly takes notice of the tall, thin figure all in black standing next to the horse, and decides she doesn’t care for it either. She curls her lip a bit and swishes her tail. The white horse takes a step backwards. WELL.

The world around her has faded, although there is still a spectral smudge of burnt umber that she registers as being her demon’s spiritual signature - an echo of his true form that bleeds through to this in-between place. The grass has faded too, and now there are only ghostly blue-white stalks waving in a still wind around her hooves. They are growing, she thinks, as she cocks her head to study it better, out of the surface of a pond.

She has never stood on water before, but that hardly matters. She’s standing on it now. Someone put water in her field. She shows her teeth to the white horse, just so he knows where she stands.

UM. Says the tall figure with the horse. HOLLY THE PONY, I AM TOLD YOU HAVE BEEN A VERY GOOD GIRL. Holly thinks that doesn’t sound right - she has kicked Crowley every morning for the past ten years, which he reminds her pointedly each time is not very good at all and will definitely earn her some kind of place in Hell - but the figure continues in spite of her expression. AS WITH ALL GOOD PONIES WHO HAVE TAUGHT CHILDREN WELL, THERE IS A PLACE FOR YOU IN HEAVEN: A GREAT MEADOW WHERE YOU CAN … DO ALL SORTS OF HORSE THINGS, I’D IMAGINE. BINKY QUITE LIKES IT. The white horse snorts and takes another step backwards, its eyes rolling a little to show the whites as it keeps a fixed and wary gaze on Holly. Holly is wondering whether or not she will need to bite him, just to really bring her point home, when she realizes the tall figure is approaching her with some kind of farming implement.

On principle, she kicks the figure. Comically, with a sound like ice cubes falling to a tile floor, its skeletal leg falls off. BIT RUDE, it says, and it swings the scythe. 

For the white horse, it is his lucky day: as soon as the connection between Holly’s body and soul is severed, she begins to sink into the water. It doesn’t stop her from trying: she makes a good run toward Binky, the great stallion scrambling backwards so fast he steps on his own tail, but by the time she reaches him she has fully sunk, and is gone from the in-between.

Death is re-assembling his leg. I SUPPOSE SHE WASN’T A VERY GOOD PONY, he says to Binky when his knee joint clicks back into place. THERE THERE, he adds, giving his horse a gentle pat on the crest. LET’S GO HOME - WE CAN HAVE ALBERT DO YOU A MASH.

-

The demon Parish is not having a good day. Frankly, she rarely has good days, being that she lives and works in Hell, but today, she thinks, is really working on her nerves. 

First, Dagon had come by asking to see the vaccination records of all the hellhounds in the kennels. Parish had explained patiently that hellhounds didn’t need vaccinations, being that they are infernal creatures formed and bred from boiling sulfur of the Pit, but Dagon had insisted, and then gotten shirty when Parish finally admitted that none of the hounds are vaccinated.

“That’s how you start a plague,” Dagon had said, imperiously.

“Aren’t we supposed to be all for that?” Parish had asked, leaning on her staff and cocking her free hand on her hip. “We are demons.”

“Just see that they’re vaccinated,” Dagon had said, vanishing before Parish had the chance to ask what, exactly, they were supposed to be vaccinated  _ for _ .

It hadn’t been a good start to the day.

Then, one of the hounds had gotten loose, run through the swamps, eaten a few souls, and come back stinking like regret, which meant Parish had to drag the bastard down to the Pit for a good washing, not that that was easy, mind you. She’d let the old boy gnaw on one of the lesser demons on the way back, just because.

And then there were  _ puppies. _ Well, a puppy. But still.

Puppies had not happened in … well, since the whole bugger-up that was supposed to have been Armageddon. Reason being, only  _ Satan _ was capable of allowing the hounds the power of creation, albeit in a small, brief way, and Satan was certainly not back in Hell - Parish had made sure. After all, it was a bit odd, Dagon asking about vaccinations and then a  _ puppy _ but no, Eric had assured her while she ground the end of her staff into his sternum, Satan was not back. The Throne of Hell still stood empty, with Beelzebub sitting at its base.

She supposed God might be able to make a hellhound, but that hardly bore thinking about at all, and she immediately discounted it as a possibility.

And anyway, the puppy didn’t have a soul. Only Satan had ever made hellhound souls - out of sorrow and anger and grief and sulfur - and imparted them onto the hounds. There was no soul here. The puppy did all of the normal things hellhound puppies did: ate three lost souls, savaged a demon that thought it looked cute, and then widdled a little Hellfire into being, but otherwise it stood stock-still. It was empty. Which was, Parish thought at the time, probably the best part of the day thus far, which wasn’t saying much.

Until the pony showed up. That had been about, well, some length of time between forty minutes and interminable period of suffering ago. And Parish’s day had somehow, since then, only managed to get progressively worse.

For a moment, Parish studies the pony. It’s a russet color, fluffy and round, and entirely mortal. Dead, really, but how it ended up here is a total mystery. What to do with it is equally so: Parish knows an awful lot about hellhounds, but she doesn’t know anything about equines, and after dealing with this pony she’s not sure she wants to. Shortly after it had arrived, she’d tried to shoo it away with her staff, and it had landed a real walloping kick right on her ribs, leaving her limping worse than usual. She has been trying to devise a way to get rid of the beast ever since, but she  _ also _ really doesn’t want to get close to it, which is proving to be something of an issue.

She reaches her staff toward it experimentally, ready to duck behind a filing cabinet in the event it charges, and instead yelps when it seizes the staff in its jaws and scores bite-marks into the gnarled wood. 

She is considering whether or not she can leave the creature alone in her office - the kennels are just through the open door, but the hounds will be fine, she thinks - to go ask Tikbalang what to do, when the pony trots through the door to the kennels. There is growling, and Parish grins, good old hellhounds, but her face falls in a split second when the growl is followed by a clatter of hooves on concrete, a yelp, and the unmistakable sound of doggy claws scrambling away across the floor. “Seriously?” she murmurs, and then, deciding there’s nothing for it, hobbles toward the door.

The pony is standing in the center of the kennel, head up and ears pinned back. It looks back over its shoulder to the doorway when Parish peeks through, and the demon swallows hard and ducks behind the frame of the door, only able to see half of what’s going on. Against the back wall of the kennels, five fully-grown hellhounds are cowering, tails tucked between their legs. One of them whimpers.

Yes, she needs Tikbalang, she thinks urgently. This is out of hand. She knows nothing about horses, doesn’t even really like the things, but for a horse so small to frighten five hellhounds into -

The pony drops its head to sniff at something just out of sight, and Parish’s stomach drops. “Oh  _ no _ .”

As Aziraphale found out at one point, it can be difficult for a soul to find a receptive body. Often, the bodies are inhabited and unwilling to share, which makes things a bit rude at best and torturous at worst. And for a mortal soul to inhabit another mortal body is, well, nearly impossible. Unprecedented, certainly. Two mortal souls simply cannot coexist in one mortal body without shredding the thing to ribbons.

But here, there  _ is _ an uninhabited body. An uninhabited and  _ immortal _ body. “ _ Oh no _ ,” Parish groans.

The pony vanishes. A small yelp follows. 

When Parish pokes her head around the corner of the doorway again, there is no more pony. There is just a little puppy, russet-colored and round, and it is glaring at her with red eyes that are quickly fading to a soulful brown. Well, Parish thinks, at least this is familiar territory. “Huh,” she says, and she steps into the room to try to scoop the thing up.

A moment later and she has needle-thin puppy teeth embedded in her hand. She howls, yanks her hand back, and sends the puppy flying through the open office doorway. There is no crying, no yelping, and when Parish finally re-enters the office, sucking on her bleeding hand and cursing the puppy from here to the Silver City and back, she can’t see the thing anywhere. The door to Hell, however, is slightly ajar, and it takes Parish all of two seconds to surmise the most likely outcome of  _ that _ particular problem.

More importantly, it takes her less than two seconds to decide that outside of her office, that particular problem is no longer  _ her _ problem.

She shakes her hand out irritably, and closes both the door to the kennels and the door leading to Hell. Wearily - what a day, and has she even thought about lunch yet? - she drops into her chair with practiced balance, mindful of the missing leg, and lets her head fall into her folded arms on her desk.  _ What a day _ .

In the silence, she decides she needs a drink. Still face-down on the desk, Parish reaches to the bottom drawer, pulls it open, and fumbles around amidst the papers and garbage and dog toys until her hand bumps against the cool lid she’s looking for. She pulls the container out, carefully sets it on the desk and, still not looking up, pulls the tab and cracks the can open. A smile slides onto her face when she hears the hiss of carbonation, and shortly thereafter she sits up to take a drink and savor the flavor.

Yes, it has been a terrible day so far. But now, fully 50% of her problems are solved, and she has a Diet Coke. It could, she thinks, relishing the fizz of the soda bubbles on her tongue, be worse.

-

Earthside, Aziraphale is actually having a very  _ good _ day. Not that it’s been anything particularly eventful, or out of the ordinary, but eventful and out-of-the-ordinary days are, he thinks, probably fairly overrated. He’s been around for a few of them, after all, and while sometimes they’re lovely and exciting, most of the time he’d honestly rather be reading with a cup of tea.

Which is precisely what he’s done so far, actually. The sun rose about five hours ago, giving way to a beautiful clear summer day, and Aziraphale is taking a break from his book to consider what he might do with it, idly watching the world go by out of the window over the kitchen sink. It’s Saturday, which means people will more than likely be out and about in the village; perhaps he and Crowley can take a bit of a walk and just see what there is to see. Maybe get lunch. He thinks about the lunch specials at the little pub in town, and about the new chef that seems to be so very good with traditional pub fare, and starts to get a little peckish. Yes, a walk to town for lunch sounds quite -

He pauses his train of thought. There is something moving in the road, just behind the back bumper of the Bentley. Some kind of animal, he thinks, and he sets his teacup down beside the sink, the better to peer over the sill and try to ascertain what it might be. It is only when he takes a closer look that he realizes it is the road itself moving, and his eyes widen as the first tendrils of smoke begin to seep out of the fissure.

“Crowley?” he calls, on the off-chance that the demon is awake. A bit of pavement explodes and pings off the front gate.

In the end, he has to go drag Crowley out of bed himself. By that time, the fissure in the road is a full three feet wide, with acrid black smoke rising from it and a glow of what Aziraphale is certain is Hellfire flickering below the surface. He tries to explain to Crowley gently at first what the problem is, prodding the demon patiently toward the kitchen and ignoring his half-awake treatise on the importance of coming bearing coffee for impromptu wake-ups, until Crowley gets distracted by a schefflera in the front hall. Aziraphale huffs, crosses his arms and, in a fit of childish frustration, snaps, “Crowley, there is  _ Hellfire _ in the road out front!”

That gets his attention: Crowley blinks twice before he makes a sputtering noise that is entirely devoid of comprehensible speech and spins toward the front door, stumbling out into the front garden. It’s a miracle that he snaps his clothes on before he’s fully over the threshold, although Aziraphale notices his shirt appears to be on inside-out. Well. Close enough.

“It’s gotten a bit smaller, I think,” he says after a moment. And it has, although he’d imagine to Crowley, who is watching the flames licking out of the fissure with increasing alarm, that is small consolation.

“What … “ Crowley trails off and crouches down, creeping toward the crack in the road like he might sneak up on it. Halfway down the walk he stops, looks at Aziraphale over his shoulder, and asks, “How did it start?”

Aziraphale rocks back on his heels, his hands in the pockets of his housecoat. “Just a little rumble, I think. I didn’t notice it until it was a full crack in the pavement. Then came the smoke and I could see the fire beneath.”

“You didn’t see anything come out?”

The angel shakes his head. “Not a thing, dear boy.”

Crowley turns back around, standing up a little straighter now. “Then what … ?” A little more boldly, he takes a few steps toward the fissure. A pebble shoots out, ten feet into the air, and  _ plinks _ off the back of the Bentley. Aziraphale winces, and sincerely hopes it doesn’t leave a dent. Crowley is spurred to action, however, and hisses, stalking over with purpose. A few more pebbles bubble up out of the hole, and then, improbably, something yaps. Crowley freezes.

“Was that … a dog?” Aziraphale asks, his head put to one side, brow creased.

“Hellhound, angel.” Crowley holds a hand out toward Aziraphale, warning him to stay back.

“Sounded a bit small to be a hellhound.”

Crowley shrugs. “Dog’s a bit small to be a hellhound, but he could still make a mess of you if he had a mind to. I think. Anyway, size doesn’t really matter.”

“So they say,” Aziraphale intones, hiding his smile behind his hand. Crowley does spare a quick glare at him, but otherwise turns back around, the better to continue down the walk to the gate. Once there, he pauses. “Now what, dear?”

“Er.” Hands settled on the gate, Crowley leans forward onto the tips of his toes, clearly trying to see into the crack into Hell. “Angle’s a bit difficult, hang on, something’s moving. It’s -”

And then, apparently to save him the trouble, a russet-colored puppy pops its head out of the crack in the road, tongue lolling. Aziraphale softens immediately. “A  _ puppy _ . Oh, go help it, Crowley,” he adds, as the little hellhound scrabbles and tries to clamber out. “Go on, it’s just little.”

“It’s a hellhound!” Crowley snaps, not moving. “I’m not gonna  _ help it _ .” It makes a sad little whine, and although Crowley’s posture doesn’t change, Aziraphale sees him twitch. “No.” A little yelping bark later, and the demon is through the gate and scooping the pup up, holding it at arms’ length and studying its face. Cautiously, Aziraphale steps down off the front porch, a bit closer, and cranes his neck to see better. Crowley, absently, brushes the sole of his shoe across the crack in the pavement and it knits up, the asphalt smooth and unmarked where the portal to Hell had just been. Bolder now, Aziraphale takes another step closer.

“This dog is weird,” Crowley announces. 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Weirder than other hellhounds, you mean?”

“Yeah. It’s … I dunno.” He puts his head to the side. “Feel like I’ve seen it before, but I’m sure I haven’t. I never spent much time around hellhounds, aside from Dog. And Rover.” The puppy in his hands wriggles, suddenly apparently in urgent need of being down on the ground. Crowley obliges, and the dog looks up at him for a moment, before it pins its little stuck-up ears flat back and bares its teeth. Crowley frowns. “That’s a bit rude.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Reminds me a bit of the way Holly used to greet you in the mornings, dear boy.” Something occurs to him in a lazy sort of realization, and he blinks. “Same color as she was too, isn’t it?”

“It is, now you mention it. But what the He - Hea - ugh.” He rolls his eyes. “What on Earth is a hellhound pup  _ doing _ up here?” He leans onto the Bentley’s luggage rack and looks around the street. Aside from the puppy and the two of them, however, there isn’t another soul around. “Who’s responsible for you?”

He turns back to the puppy, arms crossed over his chest imperiously, and starts tapping his foot. “And what am I supposed to  _ do _ with you? I can’t bloody well take you back to Hell, not with the way - Oy.” He steps back as the puppy starts to trot toward him. On the ground, its back about comes up to mid-shin on the demon; not big enough to cause a real problem, but certainly large enough and with sharp enough teeth to smart. Crowley continues to back away, but the pup is fast, and soon enough it draws even with his shoes, before it promptly spins its tail toward him and double-barrel kicks him like a horse would.

Crowley stares at it. Aziraphale does too, and then watches as he then, very slowly, crouches down to the street, eye-to-eye with the hound. “Holly? S’that you?” Crowley asks the dog in a low, quiet voice, almost reverent. 

“Can that happen?” Aziraphale mutters, certain he is unheard. But when the puppy surges forward, covering Crowley’s face with slobbery kisses and knocking his glasses off, he repeats it, louder. “Can that  _ happen _ ?”

“Who the fuck knows,” Crowley laughs, flopping onto his back in the road, the better to allow the hellhound to jump up on his chest and continue to slobber all over his face. “It’s a brave new post-apocalyptic world, innit?”

“Seems a bit ineffable, I suppose,” Aziraphale sighs. He takes a minute to look up into the sky, and he could swear one of the seagulls circling above the cliffs starts to laugh at him. “Should I assume we have a dog now?”

“Think we must do, yeah. Oy, no.” Holly has tumbled back off of him and is making a game attempt at chewing up the discarded sunglasses before Crowley snatches them up. “Still a menace then, aren’t you?” The dog yaps, and lays her ears back, and Aziraphale wonders how it could have possibly taken them as long as it had to see the resemblance. “Told you there’d be a special place in Hell for you,” Crowley says, but there’s no meanness to it. He puts his glasses back on and rubs the puppy’s head. “We’ll have to get you a leash. Something properly intimidating.”

Aziraphale snaps his fingers and is suddenly holding a matching harness and leash set: black leather with red stitching. Wordlessly, he proceeds down the walk until he is close enough to pass it to Crowley. Crowley doesn’t say anything, but he grins, and starts fitting the harness to Holly, who playfully tries to bite him the entire time, never quite making contact.

“I was thinking we might walk into town today; it’s quite lovely weather,” Aziraphale says conversationally, while Crowley gets up and dusts himself off. Holly squirms through the gate into the garden and starts to jump around Aziraphale’s feet. He crouches down and she promptly slobbers all over his hands, leaving dusty pawprints on the front of his trousers. “And I suppose we could walk the dog that we, as of now, have.”

Crowley leans on the gate, looking down at Aziraphale and the dog, lead dangling from his hand. “You’re alright with it, right? I’m n -”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I am. All things for a reason.” He takes the lead from Crowley and clips it to Holly’s harness, prompting a round of tail-wagging so violent she almost falls over. He brushes the front of his trousers off, steps primly through the gate with the lead in one hand, and takes Crowley’s hand in his other. “Shall we?”

Crowley looks up to the sky, blinking behind his dark glasses, as if realizing for the first time that the weather really is quite nice. “Sure,” he says, even as Aziraphale starts to walk, tugging him down the street. “What time is it?”

“I’d imagine we can have lunch at the pub - they allow dogs on the patio, if I recall correctly.”

“Alright.”

Holly bounds along between them, tail held high and wagging happily, her tongue lolling out of her mouth. Aziraphale smiles down at her, soft and content, and he squeezes Crowley’s hand a bit. “Oh,” he says suddenly, as Crowley returns a wave from one of the neighbors, “Crowley?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“Your shirt’s on inside out,” he chuckles. When the ensuing groan follows, he starts to laugh, even as Holly stops to see what the commotion is about, causing Crowley to swerve his stride to the left at the last minute, and trip over his own feet. By the time he is sprawled in a hedge, annoyed and glaring back-and-forth between Aziraphale and the hellhound, the angel is practically howling with laughter, doubled over, hands on his knees for support. Holly looks equally pleased, plopping down to sit and watch Crowley with a wide doggy smile. 

Crowley snaps his fingers, and his shirt turns the right way out, at least. “You’re in it together now, I see. Fabulous.” He holds out a hand and Aziraphale, still laughing, takes it, hoisting him out of the bush and pulling the demon into half a hug. He wipes a tear from his cheek and plucks a stick from Crowley’s trouser pocket before tossing the thing aside and taking his demon’s hand once more. Holly, for her part, picks up the fallen stick and holds it as a proud reminder of the walk’s events. Crowley shoots her a look. “You’re supposed to be on my side, hellhound,” he tells her, and she looks doubtful in response.

“No,” Aziraphale says, correcting him gently as they begin to walk again, Holly trotting along ahead at the end of her lead, stick still firmly in-mouth. “No, that’s not right: I think I can safely say that it appears Miss Holly - hellhound or demon pony soul or whatever she may be - is on our side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it! The story that started as a funny little idea about a pony and turned into 15k of who knows what. If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading! I would really appreciate a comment - I'm not great about replying to them, but I promise I read and love every single one, no matter how long or short!
> 
> But even if that seems daunting, thank you again so much for reading. :) Hope you enjoyed!


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